


Mr. Wooster and The Steeple Bumpleigh Night

by synonym



Category: Jeeves & Wooster, Jeeves - P. G. Wodehouse
Genre: M/M, Slow Build, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-14
Updated: 2014-04-16
Packaged: 2018-01-19 10:38:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,145
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1466302
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/synonym/pseuds/synonym
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>The moment he answered the door, all crumpled and his trusting blue eyes peering at me through the fog of sleep, I should have known. </i><br/>Jeeves recounts the events of The Steeple Bumpleigh Horror or more affectionately known as "Joy in the Morning".</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

During the time in which both Mr. Wooster and myself were in Steeple Bumpleigh due to several matters, one being Lord Worplesdon requesting my assistance and advice on a consultation with an American businessman and Mr. Wooster’s kindhearted attempts to help Ms. Hopwood and Mr. Fittleworth in their struggles to join together in matrimony, we very much on two different paths, as it were. I did, having been something I had been longing to do for several weeks now, construct a means to be able to have a moment to fish, however, I must interject that it was only a coincidence of which I had no part in that Mr. Wooster became entangled in the Hopwood-Fittleworth affair. 

Mr. Wooster so often does become a player in other persons troubles, not because he is of unsound mind or of little intelligence as some would view it from first glance, much as I did myself, but because he is exceedingly kind. When I first entered his employ, I could only go on what the Ganymede book had written previously about him, which was sum of five pages of valets that could not keep up with the trouble and the nonsensical situations Mr. Wooster seems to consistently attract. The words “mentally negligible” were mentioned more than several times and, though I loathe to admit it now, a malleable and unintelligent employer was something I had been seeking for quite some time. 

The moment he answered the door, all crumpled and his trusting blue eyes peering at me through the fog of sleep, I should have known. Instead, I revisited observations already made about his person in my mind and introduced myself in the most formal and sanguine manner I knew. I should have known. 

He adjusted to my presence well and quickly, as if I had been there for months but it had merely been days and I was taken aback by his friendly and open nature. His constant beckoning to be a part of his daily chatter and doings was enough for me to reexamine my role as a valet. I learned to be one of the best. One times everything just so, one adapts to the psychology of the individual to know when to be, where to be, and how to be in each and every instance of service, and most of all, one must be in the shadows of the employer’s life- not to be thought twice of.

My opinion of him began to shift from the words I had read to the man that I saw slowly, as I began to observe the people of which he was surrounded by. Compared to many of his acquaintances, Mr. Wooster was a bright man, indeed. He was, and still is, forgetful and never needed to discipline his mind due to his sheer amount of wealth, but he did not fit into the category of “mentally negligible” as I had thought prior to my time spent with him. It was his good will and clemency which gave the impression that he was witless and landed him in so many difficult situations, such as the one in Steeple Bumpleigh. 

Much had happened that first day in the country, most of which I had not been present for due to the pressing need to wrap up the relations between Lord Worplesdon and Mr. Chichester Clam- but Mr. Wooster had animatedly filled me in. 

“The little blister even used paraffin instead of water,” I watched him roll up his shirtsleeves in response to the heat of the afternoon, and he was looking at me, overly exasperated with the chain of events. “How does one even confuse the two liquids? I say, Jeeves, that child is the devil’s spawn, I swear to it.” 

I raised an eyebrow. “Both paraffin and water are close in density, sir. Although, why he chose to poor the bowl covered in a seal rather than retrieve water from the sink, does make the situation dubious, sir.” 

“At any rate, the cottage is gone, all aflame and what not, and Uncle Percy believes yours truly to be the perpetrator. Not that I could get a word in edgewise, mind you, he only ever listen to about two words I say in each sentence, if that.”

“Indeed, sir.” 

He ran a hand through his blonde, ruffled hair and the light of the afternoon sun gave him an almost otherworldly shimmer. I was following his description of the current events with interest, but his animated features and his eyes alight with life along with the shift of his slender forearms were a distraction of which I had grown fond of. Mr. Wooster was a beautiful man and it had not escaped my notice on our first encounter. Appearances were just so, and it did not affect me then, but my fondness for my employer had indeed grown and his qualities, just as he bit the corner of his lip in that instance and I could count the light freckles on the bridge of his nose in the lit afternoon, caused my breath to hitch for just a moment. 

“I suppose I’m right in assuming the whole business thingummy will have to be set elsewhere? Unless, of course, the man is an eccentric fellow with a hobby of sitting on cottage remains.” 

“Lord Worplesdon has requested that I assist him in securing a new location for the meeting and insists I take up residence in the Hall, sir.” 

“Was I invited?”

“No, sir.” He looked dejected for a moment and I had a sudden internal impulse to move forward and straighten his tie. I felt too far away from him despite being a mere few feet. It was a nagging habit I had developed over recent months, mainly due to the fact we share close quarters in his apartment, that when in residence with others I attempted to remain close when I could. He seemed to have the same inkling as he shuffled closer and I caught sight of mark upon his cheek. 

“We part then, for the nonce, do we?” He fiddled with the clasp of his watch and spoke in a deliberately nonchalant tone.

“I fear so, sir,” I stepped forward and he looked at me in confusion, his eyebrows furrowed together. “If you will permit me,” I reached forward and brushed my thumb against the smug of charcoal near his eye. I breathed in the wisps of burnt lumber, aftershave, and a sweet scent that I could not pin to one word, it was distinctly him. 

“Ah, and I thought I could get out that unmarked, what?” I dropped my hands to my sides, his voice an anchor out of my rapture. He was smiling at me widely with a slight flush on his features and it was with a great force of will that I took a step back from my employer. It would not be a difficult task to lose myself in him, I was half there already, but the grounding fact was that though he may not be keen on any women, Mr. Wooster was not an invert. 

He could not be, or I would know. There would have been signs, indications that his interests lay in the masculine spectrum, even hidden tokens that reminded him of what he was or who they, if anyone, were. I found nothing in the apartment and, in my darkest moments, searched countless of times. It was better in my mind if he was not because the alternative was more shattering than I could bring myself to muse upon. 

“I shall miss you, Jeeves.” A warmth spread throughout my person while I kept my mask of unaffected calm perfectly in order.

Only in so many words. “Thank you, sir,” The corner of lips betrayed me and he caught it immediately. Most certainly _not_ mentally negligible.

“So, that’s that then. I imagine I will go plead my case to Boko, he would take me in under his wing or as it happens to be the case, roof.”

“Advisable, sir.”

“Right ho, Jeeves. I will keep you apprised on the latest what’s whats and such things,” He turned and began hop down the mossy steps in his path, and turned back with a little wave. “Knowing you, you’ll have a solution to each and every wrinkle before I can sit down for dinner.”

And he was off like a skittish deer with energy renewed from some inexplicable source. I wondered then, watching his svelte figure diminish with record time, if he truly belonged in a world that was so beneath everything that constituted his being. The answer was simple, the consequences of it was proven time and time again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I began with the premise of "Joy in the Morning" from Jeeves' perspective and ran with it, albeit more along the lines of zig zagged through and threw it in to some of my fiction. Various lines are from the novel itself.


	2. Chapter 2

The rest of the afternoon went by smoothly, if I leave out the dull ache that was consistent during the times of which I did not see my employer. I attributed it to the fact that, when he was not in my presence, he tended to tangle situations more tightly while attempting to do the opposite. Lord Worplesdon conferred with me in the hopes of neutral ground and the meeting was then set in the potting shed. I took the remaining of my time to procure a substitute gift for that of Florence Cray; an identical brooch to replace the one Mr. Wooster had lost in the fire. 

The shops in town were bustling with a livelihood that seemed to seep from the buildings themselves and I made no attempts to leave in haste. Over the clatter of the streets and the ring of a plethora of voices, I heard the tinker of a bell, one that would be heard when entering a quaint book store and turned in its direction. I was not disappointed as the sight procured me a thin brown building attached to a general store, the words “Books for Sale” hitched to the glass with great care. 

The store was, when I entered in only moments after my discovery, a silent haven compared to the clamor of its surroundings. Its shelves were high and close together, the light streaming through the window of the door which caused the particles of dust to dance visibly in the line of the light. It was a comfort I knew well and I stood there for a stretch, admiring its form.

“You looking for somethin’ specific?” An older gentleman poked his head around one of the shelves in question. 

“No- merely looking in general interest.” 

“You seem like a bright fella- what about _A Treatise of Human Nature_ ,” He hobbled out of his crevice and was holding the David Hume book, tapping at its title with vigor.

“An excellent choice, but I must say with great disappointment it already has a place upon my shelf.” His eyes crinkled at the corners.

“I knew you were a smart one.” He seemed to leave it at that and placed the book on the front counter. I began to scan over the titles that were pressed together firmly in each rack. Most of the authors I could place, whether it be because I had indulged in them myself or by reputation, a few of them I knew due to Mr. Wooster’s love of mystery fiction. 

There were times, they were rare and I feel the need to make that clear, that his overtly vibrant nature seemed to fizzle out to a low hum of light. He would curl himself upon the couch with a book, his knees tucked under his chin, and read without uttering a sound. Watching him so intensely absorbed, as if in another place entirely, always caused a surge of suffocating affection for my employer that I could scarcely comprehend. I could observe him without the pretense of a mask in place on my person and it was a window of opportunity that never seemed long enough. It would be in the late evening and his clothes usually creased in consequence to his activities of the day, his tie and waistcoat discarded hours earlier. His eyes followed the words on the paper before him with an intensity that I never saw in his usual state and his eyebrows would quirk upwards and fall at incalculable times when passages seem to affect him. There are times, in these moments, where he looked as if he wanted to speak out eagerly to the book itself, but instead burrowed himself further in the corner of the couch and curled his toes inward. His silence was his way of letting his mind be the voice and paint the picture of journey. He was indescribable.

“There’s a few others that might up your ally, so to speak, on back wall,” The older gentleman called out to me. “Gottfried Wilhelm Leibniz, Plato, Spinoza, and the likes. Maybe you’ll find something you haven’t got on your shelves.”

“ Thank you.” And I meant it. I came to the end of the aisle, the prospect of the back wall being greater than the works before me, but I saw in my peripheral vision a name that I was hopeless to ignore.

I was aware of the stories Mr. Wooster published, indeed, but I had never felt the need to read them as they pertained to events I myself had been present for and he never pressed for me to do so. I picked up the slim novel, the title of which was “The Inimitable Jeeves”, which caused me to stare it for quite some time. He held me in such a high regard and it was obvious that he felt as if I was untouchable in likes of any other, him amongst them, and it was something I had prided myself on but now it just gave me the dull sensation of frustration. 

It was a series of short stories of our times together featuring mainly Mr. Little, judging by the description, and I skimmed through the table of contents with a small smile at the eccentric titles he gave our adventures. Then I came across a page that stuck me hard.

_Dedicated to the man of which these stories recount,_  
 _his talents have been a gift, but it is his presence_  
 _which is invaluable._

I felt as if the air had been sucked out of my lungs. He was impossible. This vortex of absolute certainty and feeling I had no chance of escaping, and try as I might to climb out of it with petty words that I used to convince myself that I did not feeling this, it was a lost cause.

This. I pressed my lips into a firm line. He did not feel it in the way that I did. He admired my person and cared immensely but he did not feel this.

“Have you found something you need?”

“I have.” 

I left the bookshop then, the outside air filling my lungs once more and a paper package under my arm, holding a slim, light orange novel. Needless to say, the older gentleman was bewildered at my choice of purchase.

I continued with my expedition to obtain the brooch and did so with ease. Lady Worplesdon had purchased the item from the same man I had approached when entering the jeweler’s store and when I had described the details of the piece, he scurried to retrieve another. It was a quick and simple task I had hoped would lessen dull ache but the farther away I got, the more prominent it seemed to get and with that knowledge I decided to make my way back to Bumpleigh Hall.

My first order of business was the brooch. I had to get it delivered to Ms. Cray immediately to insure Mr. Wooster would not need to give the brooch directly or accidentally explain, in manner that would most assuredly convince Ms. Cray that the gift had been from him personally, as to why a present was not given. I shuddered to have to deal with another engagement that involved her person. 

In the servant hall, I caught hold of the second footman, Paul Laurie, and passed off the task of delivering the brooch.

“You must say it’s from Lady Worplesdon specifically.” 

“ Of course.” He took the package from my hand.

“It must be delivered to Ms. Cray personally and it cannot left unattended or simply in her room.” 

“Say it is from Lady Worplesdon. Deliver personally. Never left unattended,” He seemed to avert his eyes from my looming figure but I was not going to risk any situation of miscommunication on this matter. “Is that everything, Jeeves?”

“That would be all,” I noted my curt tone and placed a hand on his shoulder. “Your assistance is very much appreciated, Laurie.” The young footman seemed content with the comment and went on his way.

The object remaining in my hand was my own and my mind flickered back to the words I had read. My presence was his for as long as he wished it. His own was already integrated in the workings of my thoughts and I felt the physical pang of it in my person.

I placed it securely in my luggage which I had stored in the space of my lodgings. It was common accommodations for visitors of my class, with a small room and multiple beds in a row. I snapped the suitcase shut and slid it under my designated bed, and I then took a moment to check my appearance in the mirror in the far corner of the room.

The rest of the evening was mostly uneventful. Lord Worplesdon confided in me the list of the settlement requirements he wanted, which is something I will not impose upon you to read for even I was rather lacking an interest in the matter, and there was the chaos of a full house dinner preparation at Bumpleigh Hall. I admit, however, my mind was fixated something else entirely.

When it came to the hour, I watched Lord Worplesdon strut his way to the potting shed from the dirt path in the gardens and I took the time to have a moment to myself that night. The air was warm and the moon seemed to light the coloured flowers with a florescent glow. I closed my eyes and stretched out my fingers to feel the wind weave its way through the spaces. I thought of poetry, of light orange novels, and most of all I thought of him. 

I continued this for a time while wandering without a specific destination until I froze at the sound of muffled voices. They came from a few feet from where I stood and I could see a moving shadow from against the wall of the Hall. 

I am reluctant to admit I jumped a fraction when the figure spun around and revealed a disheveled and frightfully surprised Mr. Wooster.


End file.
